


two for the 2how

by cryogenia



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Desperation Play, Explicit Sexual Content, For shame, M/M, Omorashi, Webcam/Video Chat Sex, Wetting, also contains pr96lematic fetishizati9n of fins, also slightly au/at, bc kinky sollux captor, in which the author invented an entire 40 person raid, to set up porn lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 01:12:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9855470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryogenia/pseuds/cryogenia
Summary: On one prong, he should really get up and take a break. On the other, there's not a lot of trolls Sollux finds more thrilling - and infuriating - to raid with than KK's weird friend, "caligulasAquarium".Luckily, doing two things at once is his specialty.





	1. 01

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Xagave](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xagave/gifts).



> Note: In case it's not obvious, this is intended to be an AU where they all meet differently (and are definitely of-age).

You’re just about to get up for a break when the in-game channel pings you. So, maybe you take a quick toggle over. Most of your playsquad hangs in Trollian but there’s a few you keep up with in Cull of Duty proper, even despite, well, you being you. You may not be the most social flutterby around, but keeping good healers (and tanks, and no KK, you do not fucking count) is in your expressly best interests. You flick through #general and #threshprinces before realizing that beep was your inbox. 

> Invitimidation from:  caligulasAquarium <

You plunk your scrawny ass right back down because 1) hell and 2) fucking yes.

The rest of the names currently in the group are blue and teal randos, probably pulled from some highblood guild, but you don’t care so much about them. caligulasAquarium is one of the best snipers you’ve ever seen, with a server record that says he either genuinely is that good or he’s a better hacker than you. You’re not sure which gets your blood up more. You’ve tried your prongs at artillery and long-range, and in close combat you’re no slouch with the throwing stars, but there’s an art to the laser rifle that you have never had the skill or patience for. In the Siege of Bastyr event (which was supposed to have gone on for two full nights), you personally saw CA take out more than one target at a distance of 2^11 simulated yards. 

You hit accept and pop into the waiting room. Half the roster is still vacant, so technically you could get up. You troll CA in his private channel instead.

> Direct message with:  caligulasAquarium  <  
TA: 2o what’2 the 2cenariio?   
CA: genocide run  
TA: ehehehehe for u2 or for them?  
CA: either or  
CA: gotta put the neww scrubs through their paces

Which is kind of a bulgebiting move, but CA is nothing if not a bulgebiter. CA’s philosophy seems to be if you want to roll with the best, first you have to scare off the worst. He thinks nothing of taking pickup groups to the hardest, most sand-your-horns off maps. You hit up Assault on Murzim or the new ground campaigns from the frontier and you’ll either learn real fast or you’ll leave. 

> carcinoGeneticist  has joined the playsquad <

Speaking of trolls who neither learn  _ nor _ leave. You resist the urge to mash your face into your keyboard. KK is your friend (maybe even your best friend, maybe even someone you’ve thought about in kind of an ashen way, okay) but he’s a terrible fucking threshecutioner and an even worse playsquad leader. Which he tries to be whether he’s nominated or not. 

> You are chatting in playsquad:  orphaners_pride <  
CA: oh hey kar  
CA: i got you the sickle from adhara   
CG: NO SHIT?  
CA: its bind on equip if you wwant it

That’s the other fucking thing, which...you are not going to be petty about, because it’s bullshit. CA is one of KK’s friends somehow, which is how you met in the first place. KK is the nut butter and pulverized fruit in everybody’s social sandwich, and it’s only natural he’s closer to some trolls than others. Still, the amount of shit that CA just straight-up gives to KK is pathetic. 

> You are chatting in playsquad:  orphaners_pride <  
CG: IS IT BETTER THAN THE ONE I’VE GOT?    
CG: BECAUSE THIS ONE HAS A +10% FIRST BLOOD BONUS.    
CA: i think so  
CA: you wwere complainin about needin a stunlock    
CG: I DON’T KNOW IF I WANT TO GIVE UP THE CRIT THOUGH.  
CG: I GUESS I COULD DUAL WIELD IF I RESPEC’D BUT THAT TAKES A METRIC FUCKTON OF GRIST.  
CA: i can float you some  
CA: howw much do you need  
TA: for fuck’2 2ake.  
TA: KK, can you play squad priince22 in dm thank2??

So much for being rational. You reach for another Red Fairybull instead of reading the wall ‘o grey that claps back at you.

You’ve started quite the collection of cans tonight, at least three empty Fairybulls and a sizeable pile of Code Reds. You’ve got a pretty stupid caffeine tolerance (unfortunately) since all your friends live in irresponsible time zones. KK’s at least four hours shifted and CA only logs on in the middle of the day. Either his sleep schedule is just as jacked as yours or he lives in one of those fuck-off oceanic time zones. You were on the fence for a while with the dullness of his text color but based on his attitude, you would guess he’s actually a fish. 

(You have certainly not scoured his infuriatingly vague profile pics looking for fins. Nope. You especially haven’t memorized that flattering angle shot of his curvy legs laced up in ‘swweet neww boots’. Not at all.)

A slight twinge zings through your lower belly as you finish pounding the drink and you shift in your seat, ever so slightly uncomfortable. Your pan and pusher might be used to the caffeine, but your void sac sure fucking isn’t. Probably you should take the opportunity to get up and stretch, maybe hit the load gaper. 

Probably you could also wait. A familiar coil of excitement tickles its way down your posture pole at the thought of holding out. It’s not like you’re anywhere near your record. Your belly hasn’t even started to hurt, and that’s only the first step to approaching your limits. 

You would ask why you are like this, but the answer is as simple as always: because you are a gross mutant who likes gross things. Like CA.

> Direct message with:  caligulasAquarium  <  
TA: for real though, what map are we hiittiing?  
TA: cau2e you can take KK two adhara but ii’m not lii2teniing two hiim biitch.   
CA: nah  
CA: i wwas thinkin the full platoon vversion a sargas  
CA: havve you tried it  
TA: no. ju2t the 2^3 we ran la2t week.   
TA: can we get that many??  
CA: we can if i ask em

Show-off, with his fancy highblood playsquad. You flip a casual finger at your husktop even though your cam’s not on.

TA: ehehehe and how much are you payiing them two pretend they liike you?  
CA: they dont havve to like me they just havve to followw orders  
CA: my grist my rules  
TA: ...holy 2hiit are you actually admiitiing you pay troll2 two play wiith you??  
TA: thii2 ii2 iincrediible. thank you. thank you for thii2 giift.  
CA: no you fuckin ignorant mudlicker  
CA: im COMMISSIONIN a few mercs to fill out the right flank  
CA: so WWE can havve a clear shot at the flagship  
CA: if you think you can keep the adds off a my towwer this time!!  
TA: 2ure, iif you can avoiid pulliing half the map! 

You take a deep breath to steady your roll. There’s a tremble in your hands that you don’t think is entirely sleep dep. Out of all those blue-bloods he’s invited, you’re the one CA challenged to be his cover. 

CA: its called shock and awwe  
CA: lots a species see reason if you hit them wwith ovverwwhelming force   
TA: 2arga2 ii2 an aii defen2e. it doe2n’t re2pond two p2ychologiical tactiic2.  
CA: wwell wwe knoww that noww   
CA: because a me

That’s so grubshitting transparent you aren’t even going to deign it with a response. (Of which you have several, by the way, all incredibly witty. You have only rehearsed chat scenarios in your head 2^4 times tonight.) CA is so insanely skilled in game and so maddeningly egotistical about it. He’s that perfect mix of ‘notice me senpai’ and ‘goddamn, not you again’ that gets your shriveled hatesponge grooving. You want to send sparks straight through his VR helm and take his self-important ass down a few pegs.

Sometimes though, the best move to pitch isn’t anything at all. CA’s so thirsty for 110% of everyone’s attention, all you have to do is shut up. If you’re not on his bulge 26 hours a night, he’ll hilariously wind himself up for you:

CA: oh noww youre givvin me the old Awwkwward Pause huh  
CA: like im supposed to be ashamed of makin an honest discovery  
CA: my playsquad had the servver first on unlockin sargas you knoww    
CA: somebody had to be first to wwipe on the citadel  
CA: i had to be first to snipe the command module        
CA: for science  
CA:  
CA:  
CA: and youre afk arent you  
CA: wwhatevver pissblood

Oh. Oh  _ fuck _ .

You arch back in your chair, blindsided by the unexpected heat lancing through your middle, your void sac. Lower. You spread your legs a little wider, hyper aware of the tingle riding high near your bone bulge. Normally name-calling doesn’t do much for you -- anybody can swear, KK invents at least two new curses every time you troll him -- but ‘pissblood’ gets you in ways you don’t want to admit. Well, not to a clueless motherglubbing wader who’s so wet behind the fins he wouldn’t know pitch from the business end of a 2^3dent.

(See, you can be casteist too. It’s not that special.)

TA: yeah we get iit, you’re a tactiical ~~wiizard.  
CA: thats strategos to a cultured audience  
TA: ju2t diig your bulge out of your own nook for two 2econd2 and lii2ten when we tell you two 2top pulliing add2, FUCK.   
CA: wwhy do you wwant me to put it in yours 

He’s so fucking predictable. He’s predictable and sleazy and you only know what maybe a quarter of his body looks like but you want it on yours yesterday. You want him to pin you flat to your platform.

Though right now that would be an increasingly bad idea, judging from the tickle starting in your lower belly. That last ‘Fairybull feels like it’s running right through you, probably a side effect of caffeine. If you had someone on top of you it would be impossible to ignore. All that weight, squeezing directly on your void sac…

(You could piss on him. He could hold you down until you were desperate and force it right out of you. It would feel so good to let go all over his expensive highblood clothes. It would be entirely his fucking fault, and you are  _ so disgusting _ because you can’t stop imagining his expression when you don’t even know his face.)

TA: iif we pull thii2 off, ii want face piic2.   
CA:  
CA: wwhat

Your breath is coming in an obnoxious wheeze and you are the worst, the absolute worst for soliciting him for this reason, but. You two have been beating around the proverbial decorative vegetation long enough. One of you is going to have to take it from trash talking to trash action. 

TA: unle22 ii’m readiing thii2 wrong, iin whiich ca2e iit fuckiing fiigure2, feel free two tell me two fuck off forever, etc etc.   
CA: NO  
CA: i mean  
CA: its wwhatevver   
CA:  
CA:  
CA:  
CA: okay

The countdown blares, startling you into a jump that puts pressure in all the wrong places. You lean back and adjust your jeans so they aren’t cutting into your void sac. You were so busy flirting that you didn’t even notice the platoon fill up. (Ehehe, fill up.) 

The canned error message screams that you have sixty seconds to either connect your VR rig (which you can’t afford) or jack in your implants (which you are avoiding as long as you can afford to). You do neither of these things and switch on your homebrew battle mods instead. You’ve got your whole setup tricked out with custom software so you can at least keep up with the goggleheads, if not beat them. 

You also impulsively snatch another soda because, why not?  Your blood is up, CA agreed to send pics, and something about that timer ticking makes you want to race to the start. You crack the Dew open one-handed and chug it in a matter of seconds. Your stomach has more than started to hate you but somehow the pain only makes it sweeter.  

On screen, the game hiccups and freezes as your husktop struggles to render the scene. You’re going to have to breed some new GPU grubs if you keep getting invited to big instances. After a small eternity of blank screen, the session finally loads the starting area - a claustrophobic, dank threshecutioner transport where KK is already shouting his way to victory.

> You are chatting in playsquad: orphaners_pride<  
CG: WE SHOULD ALL SWITCH TO VOICE CHANNEL FOR THE DROP. NO TEXT CHAT, OKAY??    
CG: NOBODY BETTER COME WHINING TO ME IN AN ILLEGIBLE QUIRK ABOUT HOW YOU NEEEEEEEED TO BE A SPECIAL SNOWFLAKE.  
CG: INSERTIONS ARE ALL-PRONGS ON DECK AND IF YOU ARE DISTRACTED SLURPING THE SCREEN 0\/3R ur GR8 KWERK, YOU DESERVE TO GET YOUR NUBS SHOT OFF.   
TA: ehehehe iin2ertiion.  
CG: WHAT AN ILLUMINATING AND INSIGHTFUL RESPONSE, SOLLUX. I’M SURE WILL THAT BE OF VALUE FOR GENERATIONS YET TO SPAWN.   
CG: NEXT STEP ON THE PATH TO ENLIGHTENMENT: SHUTTING THE FUCK UP.  
DC: i thought it was funny lol }XD  
CG: WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?  
CG: /ban desultoryContributor   
CA: i owwn the channel kar  
CG: OKAY, YOU BAN THEM.   
> ALERT: APPROACHING DROP ZONE <  
CG: AND NOW WE’RE OUT OF BRIEFING TIME, GREAT.   
EK: eee good luck everybodeee!!!  
CT: D--> May fortune favor us all    
EN: 5555 (`･ω･´)9  
CG: WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT THE FUCKING QUIRKS?  
TC: gLhF :o?  
CG: GODDAMNIT, GAMZEE.  
BC: good|luck|have|fun  
PQ: ::glhf::  
TA: glhfdn all  
DC: whats dn lol }XD  
CG: OH GOD DON’T GET HIM STARTED.  
TA: DII2 NOOK!!  
DC:  ooo tell me more lol };D   
> caligulasAquarium has banned desultoryContributor <

Your screen stutters again and then the cargoblock doors open, thrusting you into a sky full of chaos. Flak is coming at you from every direction, blooming into pixelated explosions against your incursion suit’s armor. Sargas is one of those scenarios where the aliens are near-Alternian in tech and their anti-air cannons are capable of penetrating your shields eventually. Too many direct hits and you’ll be in the penalty area twiddling your bulge until the game lets you spawn back in.

You’ve got too much riding on the game tonight to let shitty performance get in the way of topping the dps charts. You toggle your hotkey to fly without any explosion animations at all and map a route through the madness based solely on enemy shots displayed as red and blue damage numbers.

Your void sac twinges as you lean forward and you hiss into your headset. Thank fuck your microphone isn’t on.

“Touchdown,” an unfamiliar voice says over the comm channel and you frown. You wanted to be the first to ground. At least you can take solace that it doesn’t sound like CA. He’s got a breathy weird way that he says his w’s, like he can’t quite w-wrap his lips around them. You wonder if he’s got a chomper full of extra teeth, too.

You deflect a missile volley into an inattentive cerulean (sorry,  taciturnNavigator ) and take cover in a narrow alley between two alien hivestems. If you’re right, the AI defense won’t lob missiles into tight spaces to avoid collateral damage. It’ll just send fucktons of drones, which you’ll have to deal with until you figure out how disable this bullshit system. 

You click your headset on.

“Next,” you announce, expertly avoiding the ‘s’ in ‘second’.

“Right behind you,” someone huffs.  _ That’s  _ CA, not only on voice but actually spatially behind you. His armor is obnoxiously violet, tricked out with at least three custom skins. 'Toons like that don’t just cost grist, but real-world caegars. 

Fuck you want to see what his smug rich-troll face looks like. You bet he’s got fin extensions for miles.

The first wave of drones hasn’t found you yet, so you pop up your minimap and check your position relative to the satellite tower. You’re not incredibly off target, for as chaotic as that insertion was -- maybe two km under cover. Going for the communication hub might be worth a try. Sargas is a newer platoon instance, and as far as you’ve read no one has come up with an optimal strategy yet. The stated goal is suppress the enemy with minimal damage to city infrastructure, which seems pretty straight-forward -- until you hit their reinforcements.

KK is on the comms now but not shrieking incoherently, which means he actually made it to cover. You are not about to run off and join the circus but maybe miracles do exist. 

“Sync your timers!  We got thirty minutes until this festering boil opens up and spews all over us.  It doesn’t matter how many drones you cull!  While you’re fondling your seedflaps with dinky alien robots their flagship is on its way to skullfuck us sweetly into oblivion.”

You sigh and consult your timer mod. 

“0:27:14,” you inform the channel. “I’ll set my ArmadaGeddon to broadcast.”

Couple of s’s in that phrase but fuck it, the randos can deal with your lithp. At least CA and KK probably won’t go in. You’d like to think you’re at that next-level hate with them, where you have to really know the troll to get under their epidermis.

> You are chatting in playsquad:  orphaners_pride  <  
TA: (ArmadaGeddon) 0:26:59.00 tiil doom2day 

Twenty-seven minutes is also a good challenge, enough to get you chirping just looking at the countdown. You’re always tenser when you’re super focused and it makes holding out even more exciting. There’s an itch building deep in the seam of your nook and you can’t tell if it’s arousal or the urge to piss. 

You are going to fuck yourself so hard in the ablution trap later. 

> caligulasAquarium  has assigned you to  Group 13 <

A tiny bar appears beneath your HP meter indicating your field assignment. It matches the text floating above CA’s character. You immediately spam on the ‘group up!’ hotkey to fill his screen with obnoxious sparkly flares.

“All right, groups one, three, five to the northeast; tw-wo, four, six onna northw-west. Seven, nine, eleven southeast; eight, ten, tw-welve southw-west. Remember, you w-wanna creep around the tow-wers first. Concentrate on the anti-air and get those cannons outta commission.”

A silver circle like a recreational disc on steroids streaks past your field of view. Red damage numbers blossom above your character’s head. You whip around and punk the drone right out of the sky with your short-range percussives.

> Direct message with:  caligulasAquarium  <  
TA: 2o what about ‘group 13’? we’re mii22iing a heavvy and a dp2.    
CA: they bit it on the insertion   
CA: no big deal   
CA: wwe can head southwwest they can use help   
CA: kars in group ten  
TA: ehehehe ii’m piickiing up what you’re puttiing down.

KK’s still alive though, which you won’t be if you stay still. The small Sargas drones seem to operate on some kind of mesh network; the second you see one it’s already sending your location to every other node in range. CA takes out two more before you even have time to frame a shot. 

TA: let’2 roll. 

You send another volley of pointless ‘team up!’ sparks and take point at the nearest corner. Your spec is built to be a serviceable off-tank; you can take a good beating and still dish out decent damage. CA humps his glass cannon up behind you to take cover beneath your deflector shield and aims his laser rifle over your toon’s shoulder. Together you are one screaming daymare, tearing through alien streets like a subjugglator out of Faygo. 

You lose yourself in it, the percussive shock of your pulse pistols and the rain of drone husks around you. A steady stream of red and blue damage-dealt ticks up on your screen as you and CA also shoot up the platoon rankings. He’s technically nailing the most flying shitbiscuits but that’s okay because it means you’re number two, and two is already your number one thing. (It’s possible you’re getting loopy.) You’d get more caffeine, but you need both prongs on the wheel, because you are about to drive this eighteen-wheel device right through this AI’s face like a jilted kismesis in a rural lowblood ballad.

(You’re definitely getting loopy.)

There’s also a slow throb growing around your void sac, an urgency that doesn’t feel entirely like caffeine. You swivel your chair back and forth to shake out the feeling but the best you can do is ignore it. Distract yourself with the buff rotation. You have a shield minder that prompts you when it’s best to toggle flak or deflectors or auto-repair. You concentrate on that and the happy little numbers still blossoming around you. You are impervious. You are untouchable.

You are _ going _ to hold it, and then you are going to be so fucking relieved to let it go.

KK is howling in unintelligible bursts on voice chat, which you assume means he finally bit it. You check in with ArmadaGeddon, and yep, it looks like phase two is on schedule. You haven’t played this exact instance before but you spend an inexcusable amount of time in theorycrafting memos and you’re pretty sure you know what got him. 

“Sudden death is up,” you tell the channel. Warning flares are already blossoming on your map HUD, along with a slew of handles that have suddenly gone grey. All of Kar’s team and most of team eight are ghosted not too far from your location, which means the swarm will be coming your way next. 

At a certain intersection of damage dealt and time elapsed, the Sargas AI abandons its zone defense and masses all its remaining drones. If you can’t adjust, you die.

CA throws flags left and right to assign coverage and you switch out your main weapon for rapid-fire plasma pistols. It punks your range, but you’ve run the numbers: the firing speed more than makes up for the shit distance in this phase.

“Six, seven, eight, nine, tw-welve, thirteen, group on my mark. Rest ‘a you sw-witch to bombin’ gear and get ready to flank. W-whatever the fuck you do, do not close in until I’ve got the aggro,” CA says.

More flags blossom all around the map. You’re amused but not surprised to see he’s rallying you with his own squiggly violet sign. You kick it into high gear and bolt for the mark, ready and willing to help position the tanks. 

CA splits off and hangs back like you figured he would. Of course he and he alone wants to draw the swarm. See again: ridiculous highblood narcissist. 

The hideout CA’s picked is a multilevel storage structure for four wheel devices -- one wide entrance opening to an upward ramp. Assuming the drones aren’t smart enough to pull the whole building down on you, you should be able to lure them into shooting gallery. If you stand at an angle you’ve also got an excellent line of sight for grenades. You plunk yourself in the northwest corner, leaving a tiny pocket just behind your deflector shield where a certain violet menace can hump up if he doesn’t get his face torn off.

Other 'toons start joining you, blues and ceruleans from six, nine, and twelve.  desultoryContributor /dances at you like a fucking tool. You turn around and /bow to moon them. 

> You are chatting in playsquad:  orphaners_pride <  
CG: GREAT. THERE’S SIX MINUTES UNTIL THE NEXT DROP.  
CG: SIX ENTIRE MINUTES SITTING IN THIS TRANSPORT WITH OUR THUMBS SHOVED UP OUR ASSES.     
CG: WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS INSTANCE. WHAT KIND OF PAN-SEARED DRIBBLING IDIOT WOULD WANT TO PLAY A GAME LIKE THIS. OTHER THAN THE FORTY OF US. CLEARLY WE WERE ALL SOFT BOILED AS EGGS.     
TA: you’re respawniing a2 a wave of reiinforcement2. ii’2 2uppo2ed two make iit feel ‘realii2tiic’.   
CG: OH YES. BECAUSE TAKING AN ENTIRE CITY WITHOUT FLEET SUPPORT IS SO INCREDIBLY REALISTIC.   
TA: ehehehe techniically neiither ii2 re2pawniing when you fuck up.  
CG: CHOKE ON YOUR ENTIRE FETID BULGE.

“Aggro,” CA’s voice cuts in tersely. 

“Awww shit!” some dumbass whoops. An entirely different dumbass honks. You tell yourself you aren’t holding your breath as you watch CA’s shield bar decrease. 

CA’s armor dips down to critical and then catches, slowly starts to rebuild. He rockets up the ramp a full twenty seconds before the swarm hits, which gives you just enough time to grief him with trade window spam.

> Trade request TO  caligulasAquarium:  RepairBot x 1 <  
> Trade request TO  caligulasAquarium:  RepairBot x 1 <  
> Trade request TO  caligulasAquarium:  RepairBot x 1 <  
TA: you know there’2 thii2 thiing called the tank2 gettiing aggro.   
CA: just shut up and heal me  
> Trade accepted <  
> Trade accepted <  
> Trade accepted <

Then the swarm hits and you don’t have time for pupa frond-pulling. 

The individual drones that were target practice earlier are now massed in a silver cloud of death. They funnel up the ramp and you light them up with everything you have, disintegrators and plasma pistols and CA’s short range rifle behind you. A couple of the heavies go down immediately, leaving their offtanks swearing on chat.

“W-where the  _ fuck _ are my bombers!?” CA snarls into his mic. Fuck, that warbly growl is hot. 

Fuck, but your void sac is also starting to scream. You try jiggling your knee to disrupt the throbbing. It turns into confused, almost ticklish jolts of pain. That’s going to have to be good enough.

Sweat trickles down your back and you force yourself to focus on the never-ending river of drones. (Ugh, don’t think ‘river’.) It’s hard. CA is swearing up a storm at the platoon and spamming flags over and over, and all you can think is what you stand to lose. If you bite it, you could run and take a piss before the respawn. If the whole platoon wipes though, you’re probably not beating this instance. 

If these scrubs keep you from getting CA’s pics, you’re going to destroy every one of their harddrives personally, 

The bombers must have gotten their shit together because the horrible curtain of silver suddenly splits, accompanied by muffled explosions. About fucking time. This swarm defense is vicious, but power in numbers comes with its weakness. You pile all your grubs in one place, you shouldn’t be surprised if somebody makes grubloaf. 

With the main swarm suddenly besieged by shelling from above, your shellbeast group surges forward and lights them up from below. 

It’s like a Sufferer’s Effigy Celebration, only with sweet, sweet red and blue kill numbers raining down instead of burning tar.

“That’s more like it,” CA sneers.  

You rub at your tensed abdomen and imagine pissing all over a printout of his stupid, probably aristocratic face. 

> You are chatting in playsquad:  orphaners_pride  <  
TA: (ArmadaGeddon) 0:09:43.00 tiil doom2day 

“KK, where’s the respawn timer?”

“Forty seconds.” He sounds like it personally offends him. 

You take a look at the rankings and check how many bombers are left.

“If anybody’s out of missiles, I’d suggest sacking yourself. When you pop you’ll have full ammo.”

“I’m out of repair kits lol!” some giggly fool announces. Actually says ‘el oh el’ out loud. KK  _ screeches _ .

“Just spark if you’re outta consumables,” CA orders. 

desultoryContributor  and a couple others send up plumes of sparks. CA whips his biggest rifle out and friendly-fires them into ash. 

Holy shit, that should not be turning you on.

It also makes you horribly aware that your nook is warm and slick, with a trickling wetness that is not exactly comforting right now. You want to press your legs together but when you try your void sac throbs. 

You try not to imagine rubbing your sloppy slit up and down on CA’s bulge. You don’t need to see his nudes to imagine his voice begging.

More drones are happening on your screen. You take three stragglers down in a daze. 

A few randos are whining about being culled. CA isn’t having any of it.

“My platoon, my prerogative,” he rumbles. “You scrubs are gonna want any edge you can get when the shit hits the whirlin’ blade device.” 

CA whips out another barrage of flags, half in blue and half in red. You wonder if he’s doing that on purpose. You wonder if the ache creeping up your belly is your void sac or your genebladder working double-time.

“Ground-pounders are comin’ next,” CA says. “If you’re rezzin’, you bomb the tanks. Everybody else, you’re switchin’ to towers. Protect your fuckin’ snipers or I’m cullin’ you for real.”

You have to laugh at that, and then, immediately regret it. The fullness inside you makes you wince.

> Direct message with:  caligulasAquarium  <  
TA: oo biig 2cary platoon leader!  let me gue22, you can cull me seven hundred way2 wiith your bare fiin2.  
CA: see if i dont   
CA: get your miserable ass to the fuckin comm towwer 

The only thing you can think is: “he didn’t deny the fins”. You are grossest, most fetishizing piece of garbage imaginable.

The first thud of tank mortars echoes to the northeast and you kick it out to your final destination. The ache is spreading to the insides of your thighs and you keep wanting to flex them against something. A bucket. CA’s head. 

Is your void sac pressing on your genebladder, or your geneslime weighing down your void sac?  It’s all the same. You spare a hand to finger your nook right through your jeans. The rough seam of your zipper bites in and everything from your belly to your seedflap radiates heat.

Less than eight minutes. You got this. You got this. 

CA is already at the ‘comm tower’, an intimidating skyscraper at the south end of the map. It bristles with alien radio dishes and defense turrets, all of which have thankfully been disabled by an earlier group’s work. The slower-moving, heavily armored land drones are starting to turn up though, Sargas’s last gasp at taking you out. You help CA shred the one he’s kiting.   

> Direct message with:  caligulasAquarium  <  
TA: 2tart 2ettiing up, ii got thii2.

CA jets straight up the building, heading for its spire. There’s a weird semi-protected gap around the hundred and sixty-third floor where a sniper can set up a full plasma cannon. In CA’s case, the legendary drop from Adhara. He’s one of the few players who can bring the fire that hard and one of the fewer that can manage at this range.

> Direct message with:  caligulasAquarium  <  
CA: ready  
TA: 2weet.  
CA: just keep the fuckin adds off a me and wwe got this   
CA: i knoww you can do it

_ I know you can do it. _

You don’t question why there aren’t any other units circling this tower. You don’t question why he trusts  _ you _ to cover his plush rump. You mow down a second land drone and rip off its sparking ‘head’, chittering and chittering to your husktop like the champion you wish you truly were.

TA: (ArmadaGeddon) **WARNIING: 0:00:30.00 tiil doom2day**

All across the map, tower groups are sending off ‘ready’ flares. KK is cursing a steady streak of nonsense but for one it seems his group is working well. They’ve trounced a succession of the much nastier tanks, clearing a path for bombers to maneuver. CA sends up a flare from your own tower and you trill right into the mic. 

“Aim for the ventral reactor,” you remind everyone, too psyched to care how dumb you sound. “When the flagship comes out of warp it’s vulnerable. Hit it fucking fast and it should disable shields.”

Your lower half is one continuous burn but your top half feels like you’re glowing. You probably are. Your horns are alive with tingling static and your void sac is so full and you are on  _ fire _ . 

You’ve run the numbers on this scenario so many times. Now you get to prove your theory.

Hit it hard and fast enough and you  _ win _ .  

TA: (ArmadaGeddon) **0:00:00.00 YOUR A22 II2 GRA22**

The alien sky distorts and fractures into a thousand pixelated squares. Your husktop wheezes and grinds like there’s something thrashing in its gullet. It recovers just in time to render the alien battleship, all its vast and unholy angles, before the map lights up with beams from every direction. Including the brightest one, from your comm tower. 

From there, it’s utter chaos. Your screen can barely keep up with the damage numbers alone, let alone the weapons effects. CA is yelling something at KK who is yelling something else at GZ, who might be pulling adds but you really can’t be fucking sure. You swat a few nasties headed for CA’s perch and their death animations won’t even render.

_ i knoww you can do it. _

Everything narrows down to your breath, your trigger finger, the rain of carnage around you. Even the pain in your pitiful body is secondary to this: the all-consuming need to push yourself to the edge. 

The flagship is supposed to deploy a final malestorm of drones, but something seems to be wrong with its hangar bays. All you see is explosions and endless searing plasma volleys, over and over and over.

The cloud of damage numbers becomes too thick to read. Your screen stutters again and your entire display goes black. 

> MISSION COMPLETE <  
> Weapons cache found! (16 items) <

A huge array of drops spreads across your view and the voice chat erupts in cheers and seadweller clicks. Because. It’s  _ over _ . The nastiest version of Sargas, and near as you can tell, your platoon facerolled it. 

“Holy shit!” someone whoops. You agree. 

You don’t even care that you slipped in the rankings toward the end. You can work on your system lag later. All you can think is 1) you took down the fucking flagship, and 2)  _ CA is going to send you pics.  _

> Direct message with:  caligulasAquarium  <  
TA: 2o yeah. about our deal.

No response. It makes you a little nervous, but you tell yourself not to fly off the handle. It’s possible he’s just rolling on something, or maybe he went afk. It’s not like you aren’t dying for a biobreak.

> You are chatting in playsquad:  orphaners_pride  <  
PQ: ::grats::  
LR: gr@ts  
CG: WELL SHUT MY SQUAWKBLISTER AND CALL ME COMPLETELY FUCKING BAFFLED.  
CG: DESPITE THE FLAGRANT DISPLAY OF INCOMPETENCE FROM NEARLY EVERYONE PRESENT WE SOMEHOW MANAGED TO PULL THAT OFF.  
CG: CONGRATULATIONS ON NOT BEING COMPLETE AND UTTER REJECTS.   
EN: 39 (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵)و  
BC: we|owned|it’s|entire|ass  
CT: D--> Would you all refrain from using such STRONG language  
CT: D--> My moirail is watching and she is very impressionable   
BC: binch|i|will|use|any|fucking|language|i|want  
EK: eee i’m rolling need on the starreaper sickleee!!!  
CG: OH NO YOU FUCKING AREN’T!

You put in for the lottery on a random shield but you can’t really give a shit about updating your stats sheet right now. Your ganderbulbs are practically floating and if CA isn’t going to respond then whatever, fuck him. You push your chair back and try to negotiate standing without moving your lower half. Levitation, maybe. If you can focus enough for psi. 

Your husktop bings.

  
> Direct video request FROM  caligulasAquarium  <


	2. 10

Jegus tap-dancing Sufferer on a two-wheel device.

You jerk back to your keyboard like the keys are neodymium and sincerely consider your options. You have to piss so bad it hurts. No matter how much it turns you on, you’re rapidly approaching your limit. On the other prong, CA has never asked to video chat before. You know his stupid fragile ego. If you turn him down, even for a biobreak, he’ll probably take it personal and get all huffy about you ‘avoiding’ him.

You really want to see his face when he growls at you.

You dust off your piece of shit webcam and angle it to take in a small section of your desk. Not that you care if you live in squalor, but it sets the wrong tone to show off your pathetic housekeeping. You want him to see you as as a challenge, not a Sad Lowblood who can’t survive without a lusus. (You’d also fucking die if AA caught you flirting pale with someone else. She would obliterate you and make you haunt your own ghost.) You make sure only a couple Fairybull cans are visible, and regrettably your own ugly head and shoulders, and accept the call.

A second camera feed pops up next to yours, all cool blues and teals and indiscriminate highblood decor in the background. And then -

CA’s face swings into view and everything you had planned to say evaporates right out of your pan. Not only were you right -- CA has two of the frilliest fins you’ve ever seen -- but he’s got them spread in a full-blown concupiscent display. Every single photophore is lit up along the spines, creating ripples of light as his fins wave forward and back. He’s even got bioluminescent spots scattered across his cheeks, glowing like cheery neon freckles.

He’s also rumpled and scowling and wearing glasses as thick as Faygo bottles. You can’t tell if you want to laugh or shove your whole hand directly up your nook.

Laughing might genuinely make you piss yourself right now, so you settle for leaning back and antagonizing him.

“Somebody’s eager,” you grin.

CA’s fins flare wider and quiver in place. They’re so taut you can see the articulation in the spines backlit through the webbing.

“Fuck off, assblood,” CA hisses. “It’s an honor.”

“Whatever,” you tell him. “You going to ‘honor’ me with your bulge or nah?”

CA glowers and flicks his fins in tandem with his snarl. Damn that’s hot. He keeps trying to look bigger than you and those frills are the most gorgeous things you’ve ever seen. He’s so pretentious and vicious and ridiculous and you want to take him apart.

You are also aching so fucking much and you don’t know how much longer you can stand it. Your whole lower belly is swollen and throbbing, the urge to piss muddled with the increasing need to be fucked and you don’t know which you want more. Holding this much in front of a hot, visibly-aroused, maybe-kismesis is like nothing you’ve ever experienced.

He could humiliate you so easily but he doesn’t even _know_. There he is with his showy fins and his glowing spots and he has no idea how desperate you also are. Fuck.

You drop a hand down to unbutton your jeans, not even bothering to be subtle. The cam window cuts off at your midline but CA has to know what you’re doing. He gasps and produces a tiny, breathy trill.

You claw the zipper down, groaning at how much better it feels to take the pressure off your tender sacs. The fullness is hitting you back and forth in waves and one second you are ready to fingerbang yourself into orbit, the next you're ready to piss all over your hand. You rub the slight bump in your lower belly and do neither.

“W-w-what the fuck,” CA stammers, though he doesn’t sound upset. You think. Shit. You don’t actually want to be that chump who goes on PesterRoulette opening chats with a wave from your bulge.

You pause on touching yourself even though it makes your cramping void sac scream.

“Not cool?”

“ _You’re_ not cool,” CA retorts, which doesn’t make that much sense. He looks flustered. “Speakin’ ‘a desperate. You ever even heard ‘a foreplay?”

You shrug.

“Go big or go to coon,” you tell him. “You good?”

CA’s fins tremble like they’re caught in a high wind.

“Yeah,” he snarls directly into the camera.

His vicious needle teeth briefly fill the screen and you do your damndest not to piss yourself right there. Some maladapted, vestigial part of your hindbrain sees those wicked fangs and turns your bowels to water. You let out a startled moan and clamp down your whole nook to hold back the waterworks. Whoever designed the pisshole to be right smack between the bone bulge and the nook deserves a one-way helming into a quasar.

CA of course hilariously misinterprets your panicked noises and decides he should continue grandstanding. He pushes his glasses up with a calculated middle finger and visibly preens, running his fingers over his lips and face.

It’s so completely over the top. You are so frustrated that it’s getting your bulge moving.

“You like that, dirt scraper?” he growls. He pops two claws into his mouth and sucks on them until they glisten. “You w-wanna piece ‘a this?”

“Whatever ‘this’ is,” you say. It seems like he’s gesturing with the other prong somewhere off screen, but you can’t exactly tell. His camera is zoomed in tight and his face is about all you can see.

Not that you mind if that’s all he ends up showing you. You were thirsty enough for pics, the live fin action is more than you ever dreamed. CA has massive, well-polished horns too, and full cheeks that beg to be petted. If he didn’t glower so much he could easily be a redrom star. Even in pitch, you want to lick every inch of his face.  

CA chews on one of his huge golden rings. You can’t tell if he’s actually shy, or just using the excuse to show off how many gems he has loaded on his fingers.

“You gettin’ hot for me?” he asks, blinking up at you over the rims of his glasses. Your bulge slips out another inch and the urge to piss becomes even more excruciating. Fucking stupid bulgesheath-next-to-pisshole evolutionary bullshit goddamnit!

“That’s the general idea, fuck!”

You wince and clap a palm over your slit, pinching the puffy lips until that pain takes your focus off the need to pee. You let go and pet the abused flesh to soothe it. You figure it has to be safe to start touching yourself again if he’s running with the dirty talk. He can’t see beneath your desk anyway. For all he knows your bulge has been up your nook this whole time.

Fuck, what if _his_ bulge is rammed up his nook right now. What if he’s wearing those criminally tight jeans, the striped ones that mold to the curves of his legs?  You have his entire profile album memorized and now you have a soft, sexy face to go with it.

“Take off your shirt,” you pant. Holy shit, you want to see his gill slits. Maybe if you’re lucky he’ll zoom out enough for you to peep his opercula. You are such a transparent fetishizing trashlord and you don’t even care.

CA’s fins flutter and he makes another startled little trill.

“Fuck no, I got standards!” he huffs. Before your pusher can sink completely to your feet, CA adds, “you first.”

Okay, tit-for-tat. Fair enough. You grab your t-shirt and whip it off over your head. On camera, CA starts and actually chirps for you. You wonder how nearsighted he has to be if he thinks your scrawny stack of vertebrae is attractive.

You chuck your shirt on the floor next to your chair and casually flip him off. There’s a smear of your own gold streaked across your fingers. You make a show of licking it off.

CA’s eyes slip shut as he moans.

“Your turn,” you tell him. He hums and nods as though he’s on sopor, reaching a hand for his camera.

Please let him zoom out for this. Please. You pray to a Sufferer you barely believe in because you can use all the help you can get. Your bulge is all the way out and coiling over your knuckles. You have to cover your nook hole with your palm so it won’t plunge in and jostle your insides. You’ve been holding for so long and all you want is to make it through while you watch him.

CA’s glowing freckles become alarmingly huge for a few seconds and then his feed zooms out to about the same distance as yours. You groan and trade off rubbing your belly for squeezing your bulge with your free hand.

He’s wearing an actual button-down shirt with a deep, satiny sheen. Some kind of pattern you’d bet is his water sign. The fabric is so black you suspect it’s ‘strategic dressing’. It doesn’t look like he was hatched with natural rumblespheres, but the soft pad of fat over his chest gives a similar impression.

He’s also casually wearing a _cape_ , which is a gift you are going to treasure forever and ever. (Thank you, Sufferer.)

CA clicks under his breath, not an entirely concupiscent sound. He’s drawn himself up extra big, shoulders and fins spread so wide it looks nearly unnatural.

You roll your eyes. Fish can be so fucking contradictory. On one prong, they puff themselves up to look big whenever they feel threatened. On the other, they panic about actually being big.

You’re too close to your limit to have a long conversation about personal preferences and how it’s not exactly a surprise. His vague ‘artistic’ profile pics always had that hint of ‘fat fish angle shot’.

“Hot,” you tell him instead, taking your hand off your bulge long enough to paint a smear of gold across your chest.

CA jumps like you’ve run a livewire through him.  

“You’re fuckin’ disgustin’,” he says. He sounds awed.

You purposefully smear a streak of geneslime on your face.

“And you’re into it. Congratulations.”

You flick your sticky tongue between the v of two fingers. You don’t actually speak wader underwater sign language, but something that lewd needs no translation.  

CA hisses and yanks open his fancy shirt. He might have even clawed off a button. His soft chest is shades darker than the pale grey of his face, which speaks volumes to how little he must take his shirt off. His face and fins are so moonbleached he’s nearly lilac, but the skin across his thorax is a beautiful ash.

And absolutely covered in bioluminescent stripes, holy shit. If you thought his fins were lit, they’ve got nothing on the swirls painting his chest. He must have been wearing that blackout shirt to hide that glow, damn. He wants this bad.

He wants _you_ bad, and you have no idea how you’re going to keep it together.

“Yeah,” you groan, toes curling in your ratty shoes. “Take it all off, fuck!”

Your nook is so wet beneath your other hand that it’s starting to feel like you’re just a perennial geneslime spring. (Don’t think about springs.) The whole back of your hand is slimey where your bulge keeps slapping it. Each thud sends another shock through your overfull void sac and that only turns you on more because he’s right, you’re fucking disgusting. You’re dripping gold everywhere and you’re having to fight not to piss on the floor like a beast.

(You could be on all fours for him. You bet he’d be into that beastplay nook-sniffing depravity.)

For some reason, CA is struggling to remove his shirt without also taking off his cape. You should laugh at him for this but you’re too stunned that he’s naked. Nearly naked. Whatever, you can see _gills._ He has four-- five? six? -- shielded slits on either side of his torso with the faintest hint of violet peeking out when he moves. They’re a little smaller than you envisioned (or maybe it’s an illusion in comparison to the size of his tum) but they’re still absolutely beautiful.

“You like that, mudlicker?” CA rumbles. He seems to be regaining his usually excessive confidence. “Yeah, I bet you do. You w-wanna see w-what a royal flush looks like?”

“Wrong quad, but who’s counting?” you clap back. He flips you off as his other hand drops into his lap.

Unlike you, when he’s touching himself his expression is glorious. CA’s mouth goes slack and his pretty eyes go half-lidded and you chirp to the rafters for him, unashamed. It’s starting to hit that point of the burn where the endorphins have kicked in, and as much as it hurts the pain is blurring together.

When CA brings his hand back, his entire _fist_ is dripping violet up to the wrist.

“Fuck!” you screech. Your bulge flails so hard it leaves your knuckles stinging.

“Yeah, you take that,” CA pants. His photopheres are on _fire_ and his fins are waving like beacons. They want you, _he_ wants you; if his bulge were in you right now you’d probably piss all over his platform.

“You w-wet for me?” he asks.

He has no idea. You curl two fingers into your nook and they send shockwaves to your toes. The pressure around your pisshole is the same as your shameglobes and you cry out.

“I w-want you fuckin’ drippin’,” he says.

“Yes,” you moan. He could have you in a puddle, geneslime and piss and your own golden sweat and you have never been so turned on in your life.

His hands disappear between his legs again and he arches in his chair. His fins shiver when he touches himself and you can’t take your eyes off him.

“Fuck, I want to suck your fins,” you choke out.

CA makes a noise you’ve only heard in porn. He sways like he’s just been darted up with good sopor.

You shove another finger into your nook and the urge to piss ratchets till it’s nearly unbearable. You’re so fucking close though, you can’t give up yet. The sheer fact that you’ve been able to hold out all this time makes you feel ten stories tall. You jam your thumb against your pisshole like a stopper and howl as your nook clenches equally in response.

CA is panting so hard his gill slits are flared, like his body is grasping for any oxygen it can get. He cocks his fins as far forward as they could possibly go.

“This w-what you w-want?”

“Yes,” you cry. You don’t have many filters left. It’s all one, the heat in your thighs and the need to relieve yourself and you can’t tell which is going to go off first, your bulge or your void sac.

“You w-want me in your mouth?”

Yes. Yes, yes, yes. You imagine yourself with your face in his nook, naked on all fours in a puddle of your own fluids. You don’t care how depraved you are anymore. Your body is thrumming with arousal and pleasure and pain and you are ready to explode three ways at once.

“Want to eat you out,” you admit to him. “Want to lick your bulge. Want to make you come all over me, FUCK!”

You want him to get off and then you want to let everything go at once. Your void sac, your genebladder, everything you have. You want his color swirling with yours.

CA pulls a hand up and it is absolutely dripping with violet. He paints a brilliant line straight down his chest, mirroring the streaks of yellow on yours. His beautiful lights are turning purple with his own geneslime and you are not going to survive this.

He curls a long, wicked tongue between two purple fingers.

“Fuckin’ beg me for a taste ‘a this violet, _pissblood_.”

oh.

FUCK.

Higher order reasoning shuts down and you can’t hold back any longer. A spurt of piss hits your thumb and you try to stop it but you can’t, you can’t, it’s too late. Hot liquid erupts against your hand and you cry out to the ceiling as the pressure inside your void sac finally, finally gets release. Piss gushes between your fingers and soaks into your boxers, your chair, your jeans.  

You have never felt this intensely relieved before in your life. You think you might be shaking.

CA trills like he’s lost all sense of language. His body has gone tight as a bowstring and his sticky fingers are fisted in his fucking _hair_. His other hand is just as violet and he’s sucking on two of his rings.

“Fuckin’ -- shit, that w-w-w-was hot!”

Holy fuck, he must think you just came. He must be trying to make _himself_ come. He has no idea you just pissed all over yourself like a beast.

Like that, your bulge is awake again and writhing like a live wire.

“Keep going,” you tell him in a daze. “Show me your bulge.”

CA whimpers and flicks his fins in what might actually be distress.

“I can’t,” he groans. “It’s _in me_.”

“Oh,” you say, very intelligently.

Your jeans are soaked and starting to mold themselves to your legs but everything else is floating. All you can see is the expression on his face. The glowing spots on his cheeks are like stars.

Your bulge drives home into your own nook and you inhale on a long hiss. CA’s voice dissolves into a symphony of wordless pleas.

“Come on,” you say. “Come on, come on, I’ve got you. You’re good. You’re so, so good.”

When you come, it takes everything you have not to shoot sparks.

When he comes, he claws his desk so hard he might have left permanent scratches.

CA flops forward and faceplants directly on his keyboard. Your private messages immediately fill up with bullshit.

> Direct message with:  caligulasAquarium  <  
CA:n;ljlkjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj   
CA: jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh  
CA: hhhhhhhhhhhhnhhhhhhhjkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk  
TA: ehehehe that good?  
CA: fuvkoff  
TA: are you 2eriiou2ly typiing wiith your face??  
CA: n o  
TA: ii can liiterally 2ee you doiing iit, dumb ba22.   
TA: are you actually thii2 wrecked from a liittle camwhoriing?  
CA: wwwgatevver its the middle offtje day herr  
TA: that had to take more work than typiing.

“Yeah w-well my prongs are fuckin’ gross,” CA mumbles out loud. One fin raises halfway up, then flops back down.

“Go do your ablutions then,” you say. “Nobody’s stopping you.”

“If I take a _show-wer_ I’ll probably fall asleep.” CA emphasizes his stupid highblood schoolfeed vocabulary.

“Then take a _shower_ and go to ‘coon,” you tell him. “I’ll be here when you get up.”

A silence settles between you both - not entirely comfortable, nor entirely awkward. You suppose you could use an ablution break too. You’re tired and sticky and you have a metric fuckton of cleaning to do, but it feels good. Cathartic.

Tomorrow you can have the inevitable ‘w-what ARE w-we’ conversation. Today, you can just...relax.

CA sits up slowly, using both hands to push himself upright. His ridiculous cape clings like a second skin to his back.

“I’m goin’ to w-wash up,” he informs you, as if you hadn’t just given him the idea. Ridiculous, beautiful, highblood bulgebiter. “You should too.”

You smile at him, all teeth and mystery.

“Yeah, maybe I should.”  

CA reaches to turn off his camera. Pauses.

“I’m Eridan,” he says.

“Sollux,” you reply.

“W-weird as shit sayin’ it now-w, I know-w.”

Horribly, he winks.  

“But I figured you outta know-w w-what you’ll be screamin’ later.”

He unfurls both fins and waggles them in the most flagrant come-hither you have ever seen. You flip him off, turn off your webcam, and email him a virus disguised as a BOE wand.

You are a gross mutant who likes gross things, and the grossest thing of all is ED.


End file.
